The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

Why hadn’t the Straken Lord gone itself? Was the real purpose of the exchange to bring her in or to send the other demon out? The key to understanding everything was buried in the answer to that question.

At the bottom of the stairs, Hobstull turned back along a row of thick wooden doors into which tiny eye slits had been cut. As they passed those slits, she heard sounds emanating from within. Once or twice, blackened digits poked out tentatively, as if sampling her taste on the air she stirred in passing. Torches burned on the walls, creating a thick, smoky haze all along the corridor. Fresh air wafted down stone vents from somewhere above, but not enough to dispel the haze. The flames flickered and sputtered from the pitch-coated heads of the torches, casting her shadow against the stone walls as she passed. Not a place from which many escape, she thought.

She looked down at the chains she wore and saw herself as her captors did—an animal on a leash, a creature for display, a pet to amuse them, a curious specimen. In her own eyes, she had been reduced to the lowest level of existence possible, but in the eyes of her captors she was being treated exactly as she deserved. Men were less than animals in the world of the Jarka Ruus. Demons and demonkind were at the top of the food chain; Men were little more than an oddity. It was funny, but she had never thought about it before. She had never thought much about the Forbidding at all. It was a fact of life, but one so far removed from her day-to-day existence that it barely merited consideration.

Until now. Until it was all that mattered.

Hobstull stopped before one of the doors, inserted a key into the lock, and opened it. Leading her inside by the chain at her waist, he turned her about, unfastened the chain, and backed out the door. He looked at her again for a moment in that now-familiar way, then closed the door and locked it behind him.

Grianne Ohmsford, Ard Rhys of the Druid order, stared helplessly into the darkness that closed about her.





ELEVEN


Rigid with indecision, paralyzed by a sense of helplessness and loss, she stood without moving for a long time. The darkness and solitude of her prison only seemed to emphasize how desperate her circumstances had become. All that was familiar and dependable had been stripped away—her friends and family, her home and possessions, her entire world. The pain and humiliation she had been forced to suffer at the hands of the Straken Lord had shattered her confidence. Everything she had relied upon to sustain her, even her sense of how things worked, had vanished so completely that it seemed impossible in the wake of its passing to imagine ever getting it back again.

Finally, she sank to her knees on the stone floor of the cell and cried. She hadn’t cried in a long time, and she wouldn’t have cried now if she could have prevented it. Someone might hear and by hearing come to understand just how devastated she was. She had spent years learning how to keep any sense of weakness carefully hidden—first as the Ilse Witch and later as Ard Rhys. Since she had been a tiny child, she had fought to protect herself by hiding her feelings. But that method of self-protection, along with all the others she had been able to rely upon, had vanished.

When she was cried out, she rubbed her face against her shoulder to dry her eyes then stared blankly into the darkness. The slit in the heavy cell door admitted a small amount of light, and after a time her eyes adjusted to it sufficiently that she was able to see a little of her surroundings. Her cell was approximately ten feet square with a single bed covered with straw, a slop bucket, and a drain in the center of the room. There was nothing to eat and no water to drink. There were no covers for her bed. There was no place other than the bed to sit.

She tested the shackles that bound her wrists to the leather belt about her waist, then pulled on the belt as well. Both were tough and unyielding. She rolled her head to get a sense of the thickness of the conjure collar, but without being able to see it or put her hands on it, there was little she could determine. The clasps to both were behind her, where she could neither see nor reach them. Nothing in the cell would reflect their images. She took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled. There was no help anywhere.

She got to her feet again and walked to the door, peering through the slit into the corridor beyond. She could see parts of cell doors set into the far wall. Torchlight flickered and cast a mix of shadows and light, but there was no discernible pattern. She could hear faint sounds of movement and talking, but could not make out the sources of either. Smells permeated the air, and none of them was pleasant.